Resurfacing from a depressive spell at Thanksgiving drives it home how much I owe my husband and children. Due to the peculiar nature of PTSD you only feel the horrors you're been repressing when your life is pleasant, and any pleasure I have I owe entirely to their love and support. It's only because of them that I'm able to directly face my traumas, instead of having them as a constant background noise of no discernible origin.
Because of that fact dealing with the particular Hell that is my adoption-induced mental illnesses counts as a luxury. Not the sort of luxury I would choose (my tastes lean more toward kitchenwares and DVD boxsets) but a luxury nonetheless. While the work of dealing with my problems is all kinds of unpleasant, I know that only through actually doing that work lies the hope of ever knowing the peace that should have been my birthright. I would never find the strength to tackle that work if it weren't for them.
Thanks, y'all. I love you so much.
Because of that fact dealing with the particular Hell that is my adoption-induced mental illnesses counts as a luxury. Not the sort of luxury I would choose (my tastes lean more toward kitchenwares and DVD boxsets) but a luxury nonetheless. While the work of dealing with my problems is all kinds of unpleasant, I know that only through actually doing that work lies the hope of ever knowing the peace that should have been my birthright. I would never find the strength to tackle that work if it weren't for them.
Thanks, y'all. I love you so much.
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